


NYU

by santa_fe_maniac



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cancer, Character Death, Intervention, M/M, Physical Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24905212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santa_fe_maniac/pseuds/santa_fe_maniac
Summary: Jack's mother's hoodie was always present in his life, no matter what.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	NYU

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags before you start reading! stay safe :)

Five-year-old Francis Sullivan Jr. whirled around the Higgins’ backyard. He spread his arms out to resemble airplane wings. 

Anthony, his best friend of two years, giggled as he came to a stop, cupping his hands over his mouth. “Captain Sullivan? You there?” He made crackling noises, mimicking a radio. 

Francis repeated the action. “Captain Sullivan, reportin’ for duty,” he said. 

“It’s time for dinner!” Isabella Higgins called, pulling the boys out of their make-believe world. 

“Momma!” Anthony whined, his voice going up an octave. 

“You can continue playing afterwards. Come on, the planes need to come back to the station,” she said. Francis and Anthony stood still, but with a stern glance from Isabella, ran to the back porch, stomping up the dilapidated steps. 

Inside, Claudio Higgins and Maria Sullivan sat at the table, sipping at water and chatting. “Wash your hands,” Isabella ordered gently, and Francis and Anthony shuffled to the bathroom to wash their hands. 

“Would you like some wine?” Claudio asked Maria as Francis and Anthony entered the room again. She chuckled with a pained look on her face. 

“No, thank you. I don’t drink,” she replied, brushing her hair out of her face. Claudio nodded, grabbing the bottle and pouring himself a glass. 

Francis and Anthony sat at the table, across from their respective parents, while Isabella sat at the head of the table. “Help yourselves, boys,” Claudio ordered, and Francis reached to grab a breadstick, taking a large bite. 

“You better take what you want before Francis gets to it,” Maria teased, smiling at her son, who was already loading his plate with food. “He’s got quite an appetite.” 

Their dinner was a stereotypical Italian dinner. Set on the table were heaping amounts of spaghetti with meatballs and breadsticks, paired with various fruits and vegetables on the table. There was plenty enough to still have leftovers after everyone was full, so no one was in too much of a rush to get food on their plates. 

“A boy after my own heart,” Claudio joked, smirking. Francis returned a toothy grin, lacking two front teeth. “Or stomach, I suppose.” 

“Wait, Maria, did you go to school at NYU?” Isabella asked, gesturing across the table to Maria’s sweatshirt. Splayed across the chest were the letters ‘NYU’ in a bright red, bold font.

“Oh, no, this was my mother’s,” she said. “After her passing, it was given to me. Something to remember her by,” she elaborated. 

Isabella’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“It’s okay,” Maria said, waving a hand.   
  
Anthony, oblivious to the conversation, was making an airplane on his plate with his dinner. The body of the airplane was spaghetti, carrot wings sprouting off the side. Francis stared at him warily. 

“Anthony, eat your dinner instead of making art,” Isabella ordered, and Anthony grumbled incoherently under his breath, but stabbed his spaghetti with his fork. 

Francis had gone silent, glancing down at his half-eaten dinner, not having the appetite to eat anymore. “Francis? Are you okay?” Maria asked, frowning at her son, placing a hand on his back. 

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he said, and Maria nodded. 

Francis felt the sting of a fresh slap on his cheek as he glanced at Anthony’s plane made out of food. He had abandoned his phone again in favor of making plane noises as he picked up his plate and spun it around in circles in the air, similar to a flying plane. 

“Anthony, stop,” Francis said, voice wavering, and Anthony dropped his plate in front of him, frowning. 

“Why?” 

“’Cause your parents don’t like it, and they’re gonna hi-” 

“Francis, I’m not very hungry either. How about we head home?” Maria suggested hurriedly. Without waiting for an answer, she stood, grabbing Francis’ hand. “Thank you for the dinner, it was amazing.” 

“Are you okay?” Claudio asked, eyes narrowing, furrowing his brow. 

“Fine,” Maria said, leading Francis to the front door. He pulled on his shoes and she helped tie his shoelaces after his second failed attempt. “Your father is probably waiting for us,” she told Francis, who nodded, letting his mother pull him out of the house and across the street to their own. 

—

Ten-year-old Francis Sullivan Jr. winced as his father, face red with anger, approached, an empty beer bottle in his hand. He jumped as he threw the bottle, it smashing next to where Francis was sitting in an armchair. 

“Francis!” his mother yelled, catching both of their attention. She rushed over, putting her arm of his father’s bicep. “Leave him alone. This is our issue.”   
  
His father ripped his bicep out of her grip, raising a hand to her cheek, and the air got knocked out of Francis’ lungs as his hand connected with her cheek. She let out a wail, tumbling backwards with the force of the slap, landing onto the hardwood floor. 

While Francis had endured many beatings, he’d never sat through one like this. His mother was lying on the floor, hand over her side, stemming the blood that was flowing from a deep cut. Fresh bruises blossomed on her frail face. And now that his father was content with what he’d done with her, he had moved on to him. 

The hours that passed felt like years. Francis, crippled with pain, curled up in the antique armchair in the living room, tears and blood mixing on his cheeks. Maria got to her feet, legs shaking as she shuffled over, teeth gritted. She dropped in front of him, placing her hands on his cheeks. 

“You’re okay, baby, it’s over,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a loose hug. “We will get out of here, okay? Tomorrow, when your father leaves to go to the bar. We’re packing up and I’m taking you far, far away from here. To New York, perhaps.” 

Francis nodded, hiccupping. “For now, let’s get you cleaned up,” Maria said, gripping the arms of the chair, pushing herself up to her feet. 

The next night, while his father was away, Francis sat on his and Maria’s bed as Maria rushed around the house, shoving things in a suitcase. “Can I say bye to Anthony?”   
“We don’t have time, baby, I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “We’re already running late. Your father is almost home.” She shoved the last on Francis’ clothes in her suitcase before zipping it shut, moving it from the bed to the floor. “Come on, let’s get moving.” 

She rushed Francis outside and to the car. Sitting in the backseat, Francis rested his cheek against the cold window, watching his home and Anthony’s home fade into the distance as they flew down the road. 

—

Fifteen-year-old Francis Sullivan Jr. opened the door to the apartment he and his mother lived in, calling out, “Ma, I’m home!” Four plastic bags were in his hands, filled to the brim with groceries. 

“Oh, Francis!” Maria exclaimed, shoving a crumpled Kleenex in her pocket. Her eyes were red and puffy, makeup smeared around her eyes. 

“Ma?” he asked, placing the bags on the ground by the front door as it shut behind him. “What’s goin’ on? You okay?” 

She inhaled shakily, pressing a fist over her mouth as a sob escaped. Francis rushed to the couch, sitting beside her. “What’s wrong?” he pressed, placing a hand on his back. 

Reaching forward, she grabbed a packet off of the coffee table. “I’m sorry, baby,” she breathed, voice shaking. Francis frowned, taking the papers from her and skimming through the text. 

“What’re these?” he asked, looking back up at her mother, who was wiping her eyes with a fresh tissue. 

“You might’ve noticed I’ve been more tired and sore than usual,” Maria said, swallowing hard, and Francis’ stomach tied into a knot.   
  
“Ma, c’mon, spit it out.” 

“I have cancer, baby. Stage four.” 

A pit formed at the bottom of his stomach. “Ma, please, that’s not funny, stop lyin’ to me,” he said, voice wavering. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Francis.” 

The world shook beneath their carefully built life. Francis stared at his mother as the walls crumbled. 

Sobs tore out of his throat. Maria wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer. Face landing against her shoulder, he gripped the back of her NYU sweatshirt, fisting the fabric, knuckles turning white with his hard grip. 

“Francis, look at me,” she ordered, shifting to make eye contact with him. She put her hands on Jack’s cheeks, lifting his head. Francis looked at her with a tear-stained face. “I still have time left. We’ll figure this out, you hear me?” 

Francis choked out a sob as he nodded furiously. “Also, I think you should have something,” she said. His eyebrows furrowed as she pulled away. She slipped her sweatshirt over her head, revealing a plain white t-shirt, placing it in Francis’ hands. 

“Why?” he asked. 

“I want this to remind you I’ll always be here, even if I’m gone,” she said, brushing her thumb over his cheek. “I don’t want you to forget me.” 

“I’m never gonna forget you, ma,” Francis said, hiccupping. “How could I?” 

“I know, but I just want to be sure,” she said, smiling slightly. “I need you to know that I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.” 

Francis let out a sob, dropping the sweatshirt in his lap as he threw his arms around Maria, gripping her. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

—

Seventeen-year-old Francis Sullivan Jr. entered the cramped hospital room, food he had picked up from McDonald’s in his hands. His mother lay in bed, frail and deathly pale, barely having the energy to blink her eyes open to look at him. “Hey, ma,” he greeted with a small, forced smile. “How’re you feeling?” 

She gave a noncommittal grunt, eyes sliding shut again. Francis deflated, sitting on the hard-plastic chairs in the room. “I have food for you,” he said, though she hadn’t eaten in days. “If you want it, of course,” he added. 

A deafening silence filled the room. Responses from Maria had grown less frequent as the days dragged on, and Francis was lucky if he got a ‘hello’ out of her. 

This whole situation felt wrong. She was supposed to live much longer, fiercely fighting for what she cared about. Seeing her like this, on the brink of death in a stiff hospital bed, was gut-wrenching. “I love you, ma,” he whispered, setting the salad he’d bought for her on the table beside her bed. 

He pulled his chair up to the side of the bed, reaching out a brushing a hand through Maria’s thin, short hair. “You’s gonna get better, I’m sure ‘a it.” Francis was clinging onto the last shred of hope that she’d make a miraculous recovery. 

“No, baby,” she rasped out, vocal cords hardly working. “This is it.” 

Francis’ eyes stretched wide. “Ma, please don’ say that,” he said, voice wavering dangerously. “You’s gonna get better,” he repeated. “I love you.” He didn't get a response.

Francis slept over that night at the hospital, having a feeling that the next few days would be Maria’s last, and that night, at 1:42 a.m., they pronounced her dead. Francis sobbed by her bed, gripping her bony hand as tightly as he could, tucking his head in the space between her neck and her shoulder. 

The longer he sat there, the colder her body became. “I’m so sorry, ma,” he choked out through sobs, though she couldn’t hear him. “I should’ve said I loved ya more, I should’ve been there for ya more, I should’ve worked harder for ya to have a better life.” 

He had the sudden urge to wrap the drawstrings of the sweatshirt he was wearing—his mother’s—around his neck, not stopping until he was dead, just like his mother. It wasn’t quite the honorable death he’d imagined, but how could he go on without his mother? 

—

Twenty-year-old Jack Kelly waded through a sea of clothes covering his bedroom floor on his way to his bed. 

Tumbling down on his bed, he reached for the beer bottle on the nightstand. 

This is how he spent his days and nights, filling the void his mother’s death left with beer. His phone sat beside the empty bottles, untouched. 

Amid the mess, buried deep in his dresser, was his mother’s sweatshirt. The sight of it caused him to burst into tears. 

A knock sounded. His friends had attempted to come and check in, but a drunk, angry Jack always shooed them off by yelling at them mercilessly. The only one who Jack was okay with was Davey, who had just opened his bedroom door. 

“It’s a mess in here,” Davey said as he stepped into the disheveled room. 

“Thanks,” Jack said dejectedly. 

“When was the last time you got out of bed? Or, I don’t know, went outside?” Jack shrugged in response. Davey sighed, crossing the room to scoop up the several empty bottles on his nightstand. “Come on, let’s go get some fresh air. It’ll make you feel better.” 

“How d’you know that?” he asked, shifting to lie on his stomach, voice muffled as he shoved his face in his pillow. 

“Because sometimes getting out of bed and accomplishing something can make you feel good about yourself,” he said. “I’m going to get rid of these,” he said, nodding to the bottles in his hands, “and then we’re gonna go outside.” 

Jack groaned, limbs feeling much too heavy to even attempt to stand. Footsteps faded, then drew closer again. “Jack, I thought I told you to get up,” he said, exasperated. “Here, I’ll help you out.” 

He turned his head, Davey standing by the bedside table with outstretched arms. Jack, not having a way to get out of this, took his proffered hand and pulled himself to the side of the bed and into a sitting position. He slid off the bed, standing. “There you go,” Davey said, smiling, pressing a kiss to his cheek.   
  
Their hands remained linked as Davey dragged him through the quaint apartment, sliding open the back door, stepping out onto the balcony. 

Jack shivered as his bare skin hit the frigid air. He wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his limbs for warmth. 

He took a deep breath, fresh air filling his lungs. He’d grown used to stale air over the past few weeks and stepping out of his apartment felt like he’d landed in a whole fresh world. 

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He smiled softly as lips brushed over his temple. “I love you, Jackie. While I’m going to give you time to grieve, we’re taking a trip outside whenever I come by.” 

Jack didn’t have it in him to say no. 

— 

Twenty-one-year-old Jack Kelly sat at the kitchen counter; empty beer bottles scattered around him. 

He’d been told many times to quit. Almost every night, Davey stood in front of him, pleading for him to stop drinking. He spent many nights sobbing in front of his boyfriend, who regarded him with an indifferent face as he sipped away at whatever alcohol he’d chosen to consume that night. 

Jack cared deeply about his boyfriend. Davey had gone away for a few weeks to get his head together, not being able to watch Jack drink himself to death. 

Jack felt as if he was stuck in a bottomless pit. He clawed at the walls, but they crumbled beneath his fingers. He screamed for help, but no one heard him. He was trapped, unable to climb his way out. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Jack downed the rest of the bottle before setting it on the counter, standing and stumbling over to the door. “What?” he asked, opening it, eyes widening when he saw a group standing outside his door. 

Davey stood the closest to the door, face serious. “We have to talk, Jack.” Not giving him any time to respond, he pushed past him, the group following him in. 

“Wha’s this ‘bout?” Jack asked, words slurring. 

“It’s ‘bout the drinkin’,” Race told him, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’s all care ‘bout ya, Jackie, and it hurts to see ya destroyin’ yaself like this.” 

Jack scoffed. “’M fine,” he said. Hands landed on his shoulder, pushing him over to the couch, and Jack had no choice but to sit. “Dunno why’s you here, everythin’s goin’ great.” 

“Stop lying to us,” Mush said from beside him. “We’re here to help you. Just be honest with us.” 

“Ever thought I don’ need help?” Jack asked, looking over his sizeable group of friends that had gathered in the living room with a glare. 

“From here, I can see about five empty bottles in the kitchen, and that’s just on the counter alone,” Smalls said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t even see what’s in the rest of the kitchen. You have a problem, whether or not you want to admit it.” 

“I love you, Jack,” Davey said, gripping his bicep tightly. “I love you more than I care to admit. I was thinking about proposing to you, if I have to be completely honest, but the only thing that stopped me was your addiction. In the five months I lived with you, I only saw you sober a handful of times. You’re going to die if you keep this up.” 

Albert read aloud from an article pulled up on his phone, “ _Long-term effects of alcohol: memory loss, throat, mouth, larynx, breast, liver, colorectal, or esophageal cancer, stroke_.” Jack’s hands balled up into fists. “That’s scary shit. You have things going for you. You have a future, so why are you throwing that away?” 

“Ma’s gone. Dead. Spent my whole life tryin’ to protect ‘er, and she’s gone. I ain’t got a future without my ma,” Jack said, jaw tight. 

“You do,” Davey said. “Your art is amazing, you’re skilled in so many areas. You have a future, you just have to work for it.” 

Jack’s eyes welled up with tears. “Ma was the one who kept me alive. Wouldn’t be ‘ere if weren’t for ‘er. She’s gone, so what do I ‘ave left to live for?” 

“Jack, look around the room,” Spot ordered, and Jack looked at his friends, all of which looked concerned. 

“You have many things left to live for,” Finch chipped in. “Us. We all care about you so much. And you have Davey, who wants to marry you! That’s something to live for. Don’t’cha wanna marry him?” 

“I do,” Jack said, picking absentmindedly at a hangnail. His inebriated brain struggled to process everything happening, what everyone was saying. “Please, could you guys just go? I gotta think ‘bout what you’s, be alone for a minute.” 

“We’re not leaving.” 

“Then I’ll be back,” he said, standing. No one attempted to stop him as he fled to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser, digging through it until he found a black sweatshirt, the red letters ‘NYU’ splayed across the chest. He sniffed it, the knot in his stomach loosening as he smelled the sweet rose perfume his mother always wore. He pulled it over his head, crossing the room to sit on his bed. 

He leaned against his headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest. He filtered through his foggy mind; the boys’ words ingrained in his brain. 

He imagined his mother, sickly pale, sitting on the couch in their old apartment, reaching her bony, thin arms out towards him. They wrapped around him in a warm embrace. “Baby, I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, voice raspy and broken. “But why’re you doing this to yourself?” 

“I dunno, ma,” he admitted softly, burying his face in the soft fabric of her blouse. “I miss you.” 

“I hate watching you do this to yourself. Listen to your friends. Get better. I know you loved me, but you have to move on.” 

The scene ended, Jack in his messy room again, sitting on his bed, tears running down his cheeks. The scene had seemed so real, so raw, that he couldn’t believe it was just his imagination. 

He pushed himself off of his bed, shuffling out of his room. All eyes landed on him as he passed by the living room and into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet above the sink, he grabbed a bottle of alcohol. Davey jumped to his feet, running to stop him, but slid to a stop when Jack popped the lid, turned the bottle over, and watched the liquid run down the drain. 

While he may not be okay for a long time, he had a reason to try. 

—

“How’s dinner comin’?” Jack questioned as he approached his husband, wrapping his arms around his waist, resting his head on his shoulder. Davey smiled tenderly, tilting his head to lean against Jack’s. 

“It’s almost done,” Davey said, absently stirring the macaroni in the pot on the stove. “Is Ari home yet?” 

“No. She texted me saying she left the party, so she should be home in a few minutes,” Jack told him. “If dinner’s almost done, I gotta wrangle the twins inta their seats,” he said, pulling away. He took a deep breath, clapping his hands together to psych himself up. 

“Good luck with that, babe,” Davey said. 

“Thanks,” he said. Before he could even exit the kitchen, the creaking of the front door being opened sounded, and the door soon slammed. “Ari?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing. 

Exiting the kitchen, he stood in the hallway. Storm clouds floated over her head as she slipped off her shoes, their shoulders bumping together as she raced past him and up the stairs. The sound of a door slamming sounded from upstairs. 

Davey poked his head out of the kitchen. “Is everything okay?” 

“You continue dinner, I’m gonna check on ‘er,” Jack told him, and Davey bit his lip, conflicted, but nodded. 

Jack jogged up the stairs and down the hall. He stopped in front of the second door on the left, raising a fist and knocking gently on the door. “Ari? What’s up? Can I come in?”   
  
There was a small sniffle. “Yeah,” Ari said shakily, and Jack slowly pushed the door open. Ari sat on her bed, leaning against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were puffy, red, and glossy from crying, and there were wet patches on her jeans and white shirt. 

“Why’s you cryin’?” Jack asked as he crossed the room, sitting on the foot of her bed. 

Ari hiccupped, pulling her sleeve over her hand and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Alex broke up with me.” 

Jack frowned, though a sick sense of satisfaction rushed through him. He’d never liked Alex from the beginning, but Ari seemed happy, so Jack wasn’t about to take that joy away from her. 

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, shifting to sit beside her. Ari curled into his side when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She dropped her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” 

Ari took a shaky breath, face scrunching up. “Why does your sweatshirt smell like perfume?” she asked. 

“Well, it’s my mother’s,” Jack explained, figuring Ari needed a distraction. “When she died, she gave it ta me. And as stupid as it sounds, I buy her perfume and cover it with it. It’s a piece of ‘er that’ll always be there, ya know?” 

“That’s not stupid,” Ari said. “That makes sense.” 

“Here, you’s should wear it. It’ll be more comfortable than just a shirt.” He pulled away from Ari to tug the sweatshirt over his head, and she didn’t protest when he pulled it over her head. She slipped her arms into the sleeves before curling back into her father’s side. 

“It’s kinda comforting. The smell, I mean,” Ari commented. 

“Yeah, that’s why I wear it,” Jack said. “I’m sorry he broke up with ya, but when ya look back on it in the future, you’s gonna realize that it was for the best.” 

“Yeah, I know. But it feels shitty now.” Jack would have usually given her a stern look, but let the language slide. 

“And it’ll feel like that for a while.” Jack brushed a thumb over her cheeks, wiping the tears away. “But it’s gonna pass, and we’s here for you. Ya know, me and dad and the twins and all of your friends. We’s here to stay, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ari said, the corners of her mouth tugging up in a faint smile. “Thanks, dad.” 

“No problem, baby,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Now, dinner’s almost ready. Ya hungry?” 

“Starving,” she said, pulling away from his grip to stand. She walked towards the door, but paused, turning around. “Dad?” 

“What’s up?” 

“I love you.” 

Jack beamed. “I love you too. Always have and always will.” 

Looking back on his life, Jack Kelly during his addiction would have never pictured himself with three beautiful children and a stunning husband, but somehow, that’s where he was. 

Even though the years following his mother’s passing were difficult, and he just barely escaped the tight grasp of addiction, but now that he was healthy and sober and he wouldn’t change any of that for the world. 

Thirty-three-year-old Jack Kelly was happy, and, while his life wasn’t perfect, he’d survived, and that had to count for something. 


End file.
